


Other Men's Children

by howitfeelstoloveagirl



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, M/M, Mentions of Rape, everyone hates terry, homophobia: terry is in this, kev and mickey friendship !!!!!, kev hates parents who beat their kids, mentions of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 17:42:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1696865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howitfeelstoloveagirl/pseuds/howitfeelstoloveagirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a few months after the season 4 finale, and Kev's become pretty close to Mickey seeing as they both spend incredible amounts of time at the Gallagher's. Terry gets out of jail, only to spend every day at the Alibi, getting drunk and bashing Mickey to anybody who will listen. Kev decides enough is enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Other Men's Children

Kevin Ball had never really had much of a family life. He’d never known his dad, and what he remembered about his mom could be counted on one hand. He was put into foster care at three years old, and the system was all he’d ever known. He’d seen every type of foster parent. There were the ones who couldn’t care less, only in it for the money, who barely bothered to remember your name. There were the psychos, seemingly in it for their lifelong dream of making children suffer, who were never afraid to raise a hand and who carried the key to the fridge around their neck. There was the middle aged couples, desperate for children after years trying to conceive; a gift from god when you’re a young cute kid but not when you’re a teenager staring up at the disappointment in their eyes when you get dropped off on their doorstep as a last minute placement. The only one who had given two shits about Kev was Stan. Sure, he was an old surly prick, and more racist and misogynistic than Mitt Romney, but he’d cared about Kev when no one else had.

Kev figured it was hard to get good parents, and pretty fucking impossible to get perfect ones. The world was littered with dead beat parents; addicts, alcoholics, and workaholics. Kev saw dozens of bad parents a day at the bar, drinking away the money that should be going to their children. They were selfish and neglectful sons of bitches, but at the end of the day, they did care about those kids even if it was in their own fucked up way. If you had parents that cared about you, well hell, that was more than Kev could say about his.

But of all the parents that shouldn’t be parents, of all the Frank and Monica Gallagher’s, there were some that really shouldn’t be parents. How fucking messed up do you have to be, to raise a baby of your own blood, only to beat them, molest them, do everything in your power to hurt them. Kev and Vee had spent years trying to conceive, they’d done everything in their power to have a baby. Yet there were men like Terry Milkovich who must have about half a dozen kids, beating each one more than the last. 

In his line of work, Kev had learned to be pretty forgiving. He had to, otherwise he’d end up hating a third of his clientele. But Kev hated Terry Milkovich. For years, Terry had been drinking at the alibi, shooting his mouth off about “fags” and “niggers”. More times than he could count, Terry’s bar fights ended with some sorry son of a bitch passed out on the bathroom floor, with bruises littering his face and swastikas drawn across his forehead and Kev had to wonder why was it this time; sexuality, race, disability? And if that didn’t make his blood boil, seeing Terry’s kids the next day with matching bruises certainly did. 

“I’m raising my kids to be soldiers,” Terry had said proudly at the bar one afternoon ten years ago, back when Kev had still worked under Stan.   
“You’re going to ship them off to the navy?” Stan had laughed.   
“No, you fucker,” Terry said, “Not the fucking military. Nah, they’re my soldiers. My own private militia. Kids are just workers you don’t need to pay. My teenagers moved an entire warehouse of meth last weekend, my six year old daughter can roll joints faster than any Mexican, and my youngest boy here can swing a bat harder than any fucker in this bar.” He clapped his hand on the shoulder of the eight year old boy at his side. Kev couldn’t help but notice how the boy trembled at the touch.   
Kev couldn’t take his eyes of the boy. He was small, probably too small for his age. He looked like he was wearing somebody else’s clothes, that or he just likes to dress in men’s shirts that go down to his knees. He was dirty, covered in dirt and grime, looking even dirtier next to Terry who seemed relatively clean. Kev wondered if Terry was one of those parents who locked the bathroom door with a key. But what really caught Kev’s attention was the boy’s eyes. They were wide and blue and surrounded by purple bruises and dark bags. And they looked so sad, and so innocent, and as the boy stared back at Kev, Kev couldn’t help but feel like the boy was crying out for help. 

When Terry Milkovich had left with the boy, Kev had rushed over to Stan.  
“Shouldn’t we do something?” Kev had whispered urgently.   
“Do what?”  
“That boy… his siblings. Their dad obviously beats them, and it doesn’t look like he feeds them much. Shouldn’t we, you know, stop it?”  
“Not our place.” Stan said gruffly. “Don’t you go messing in other people’s business, Kevin, this got nothing to do with you or me.”  
“But that boy-”  
“Is better off where he is than in the system. He’s got family, and a big one too. You really wanna take him away from that?” Stan headed back to the bar where more patrons had lined up. Kev had listened to the old man, leaving the issue be. He thought back to all the fucked up foster parents in the system. Better the devil you know, right? 

Years later, Kev had stood behind the bar in shock as he watched Terry Milkovich try to beat his son to death. It was that same little boy, now bigger and older, but still very much a boy. He listened to Terry Milkovich scream horrible, cruel things at his son; names and words Kev would never, could never, say to his own children. 

So, Mickey Milkovich was gay. It wasn’t exactly news to Kev, who hadn’t missed the kid’s not-so-subtle inquiries about Ian, and not to mention this morning when Kev had stopped by the Gallagher’s to retrieve his goddamn toaster, and at the table had been Mickey, pouring Ian coffee, the two of them acting very ghetto married.

Kev wasn’t sure why Mickey had gotten married to that hooker, but by the looks of it, it was no loving relationship. Thinking about Terry Milkovich, his blatant homophobia, and the fear of god he strikes in his children and everyone else in Chicago, Kev had a pretty good idea why that wedding happened. 

Kev hated Terry Milkovich, and he’d stood idle by far too long. Terry had gotten out of jail last weekend, and had spent pretty much the entire week on the same barstool, drinking a six month supply of beer and never once failing to bring up his faggot son and all the horrible things Terry is going to do to him. Every time Terry opened his mouth about Mickey, and Kev stood by silently, he felt like he was betraying his friend.

Kev had gotten to know Mickey pretty well over the past six months. Hell, they ran a business together, albeit not a government approved business, but still. And this spring, Mickey had been at the Gallagher house more than some of the Gallaghers themselves, or so it seemed. Kev had seen how Mickey was with Ian when he’d been sick, so gentle and determined. And it turned out Mickey was an alright guy to have around, he’d definitely been good for a few laughs while helping Lip and Kev with the ice cream truck. 

So, late Friday night when Kev had had enough of the constant gay bashing that his bar had become this week, he decided enough was enough. It was his fucking bar for fuck’s sake! He was in charge, and he was going to put his foot down. 

“I’m too fucking soft on the kid,” Terry was saying, drinking to a level that would challenge even Frank Gallagher, “if it were my father, the kid would be dead. Bullet to the head, first time I caught him taking it up the ass. No questions asked. Call me a bleeding heart but I thought I could change the kid. Brought that whore over to fuck him straight, set him up with a wife and kid and even let him stay in my own damn house. But kid’s still a fucking fairy, that homo’s gunna give us all AIDs if I don’t do something bout it. I’d shoot him, if I didn’t know he deserves so much worse.”

Kev threw down the rag, seething. “Shut the fuck up Terry.” He said as calmly as he could. The whole bar went silent, all eyes on Kev, all mouths open wide in shock.

“What the hell did you just say?” Terry slammed his glass down on the counter. If this was a bugs bunny cartoon, steam would be shooting from his ears. 

Kev was more scared than he’d ever been in his life, but he didn’t back down, as much as he felt like he was about to shit his pants. “This is my fucking bar and I got a few new rules for all of you, so listen up you sick fucks! First things first, don’t fucking beat your kids to death in my bar. Thought that one was a no brainer, but guess not! Secondly, we’re not gunna sit around all day talking shit about teenage boys who like to fuck each other. Who gives a shit! Nobody making you fuck guys, who cares what a couple of kids do? And finally, you,” Kev pointed at Terry, who was standing still with shock and fury, “you’re going to get the hell out of my bar.” And then Kev braced himself for the inevitable. Sure enough, within seconds he was lying flat on his back, all he could see was a blur of fists and lights.

The guys at the bar had pulled Terry off Kev, and the cops had taken the old prick away from the alibi for a second time that year, or so he’d been told. Kev didn’t remember too much up until he’d woken up in the hospital with several broken ribs and a severe concussion. 

The Gallaghers had showed up a couple hours later, along with Mickey. They all hugged and congratulated him, Ian making jokes about Kev being the new Clark Kent, and Lip assuring Kev he’d find him a deal on a one way flight to Cuba, or wherever else Terry Milkovich could never find him. 

“Why’d you do it?” Debbie had asked.  
“Guy’s a sick son of a bitch, and I wasn’t gunna listen to him talk shit about my friend anymore.” Kev winked at Mickey, who stared back in confusion. 

It wasn’t until Vee and Fiona had ushered everyone else from the room that Mickey finally spoke up.   
“Thanks” he muttered, not quite meeting Kev’s eyes.  
“Don’t mention it. Just promise me you won’t listen to a word he says, because it’s all a load of shit, Mickey.” Mickey raised his eyes, and Kev found himself once again staring into those large blue eyes, haunted by a lifetime of pain. Kev couldn’t help but think that he didn’t step in nearly soon enough. 

The next day when Kev went home to his daughters, picked them up and held them tight. They were so small, so innocent. His own blood, his own charges. Their little eyes stared up at him with that inexplicable trust, and Kev couldn’t imagine how you’d ever look into your child’s eyes only to hurt them. “Gay, straight, bi, trans; I don’t give a fuck what you are, you’ll always be my kids and I’ll always love you, you can count on that.” He kissed them each on the head and lowered them into their cribs with care.


End file.
